


Winter Break

by BeaArthurPendragon



Series: Right Here All Along [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst, BFFs, Beaches, Christmas, Coming Out, Crushes, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Fluff, Foggy Nelson needs a hug, Friends to Lovers, Human Disaster Matt Murdock, LGBTQ Character, M/M, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-23 06:19:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17074997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeaArthurPendragon/pseuds/BeaArthurPendragon
Summary: “I thought you and Marci were on your way to the beach.”“Yeah, well, not anymore,” Foggy says glumly, taking another healthy swallow of whiskey. Indeed, at this moment he and Marci should have been arriving at his sister’s vacation house on Long Island Sound, for one glorious, ridiculously romantic week alone together before finally introducing her the rest of the Nelson clan when they arrived on Christmas Eve.Matt tilts his head sharply as the ice clinks in Foggy’s glass, and his hair flops adorably in front of his sunglasses in that way that Foggy Absolutely Would Never admit reminds him of a curious German Shepherd puppy—“Are you drunk?” Matt asks.(Or: Foggy's long-simmering crush on his roommate comes to a head.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StripedScribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StripedScribe/gifts).



> My prompt was "Hiatus." What a great prompt, StripedScribe! I had a lot of fun with this. I hope you enjoy it! 
> 
> This is set during the winter break of Foggy and Matt's third year of law school. They're about 25.
> 
> Fills my Daredevil Bingo square: Nelson and Murdock

The last thing he wants to do right now is talk to Matt, but it’s polite to announce his presence in the apartment when he gets home, and Foggy Nelson is nothing if not polite.

“Hey, Matt.”

“Oh, hey,” Matt says, surprised. He leans his cane in the corner, drops his gym duffel, and shrugs off his coat. It’s nearly ten, but Matt prefers going late, when it’s less crowded. “I thought you and Marci were on your way to the beach.”

“Yeah, well, not anymore,” Foggy says glumly, taking another healthy swallow of whiskey. Indeed, at this moment he and Marci should have been arriving at his sister’s vacation house on Long Island Sound, for one glorious, ridiculously romantic week alone together before finally introducing her the rest of the Nelson clan when they arrived on Christmas Eve.

Matt tilts his head sharply as the ice clinks in Foggy’s glass, and his hair flops adorably in front of his sunglasses in that way that Foggy Absolutely Would Never admit reminds him of a curious German Shepherd puppy—

“Are you drunk?” Matt asks.

Foggy laughs bitterly. “Working on it.”

“What happened?” As if could somehow feel Foggy’s gaze, Matt pushes his hair out of his face and, since they’re alone, removes his glasses and leaves them on the little hall table next to his keys. (They are adults with a hall table! How did this even happen?)

The concern on Matt’s face is so transparent, Foggy wants to die.

She’d suggested a hiatus so they could both figure out their feelings, because God, had it gotten awkward fast. One year of solid relationship-building, of consciously committing to her, of _doing the work_ , of all undone by one stupid sentence said in a moment of weakness when his mind was supposed to be on her, and decidedly, clearly, disastrously _wasn’t_.

But he knew perfectly well that “hiatus” was just her way of avoiding saying goodbye. “Not talking about it.”

“Okay.” Matt stands awkwardly in the entryway, then half turns toward the kitchen. “You, uh, want company?”

He doesn’t and he does, and since his default position with Matt has always been yes, he waves toward the kitchen pointlessly. “There’s a bunch of beer in the fridge and a bottle of Jamie on the counter by the sink. Knock yourself out.”

While Matt’s in the kitchen, Foggy kneels in front of the TV and pops a well-worn disc into the DVD player.

Matt emerges from the kitchen with a banana and a glass of whiskey. He pauses in the doorway to take a bite as the first bars to the movie’s opening theme begin to play.

“Bad enough for _Star Wars_ , huh?” he asks sympathetically. He takes another bite of banana and Foggy nearly weeps at the sight.

“Worse,” he says hoarsely.

* * *

Twelve hours later, Foggy and Matt are hungover beyond redemption and doing their best to stay awake and keep their breakfasts down on the train to Long Island.

_Let’s go to the beach anyway, buddy. You and me._

_What,_ now _you want to go? You said hate waking up in strange places._

_True, but think: Your mom’s going to be so happy I changed my mind that she won’t have time to ask you awkward questions about Marci._

_Believe me, she’ll make time._

_Well then at least you’ll have someone to get drunk with afterward._

It was a bad idea under the circumstances—possibly the worst idea—but Matt had thrown him a lifeline and Foggy couldn’t think of a way to refuse it without explaining why, without articulating words he can’t figure out to say.

They rent a car in Port Jefferson and drive the rest of the way to the small village of West Harbor. After a quick stop for groceries and diner hamburgers—which Matt proceeds to vomit up in the parking lot—they arrive at Candace’s house a little after noon.

Foggy whistles when he opens the door.

“Sounds big,” Matt says, tapping his cane on the glazed concrete floor of the entryway and listening to the echoes.

“I take back everything I’ve ever said about Candace selling her working-class soul to become an investment banker,” Foggy murmurs, leading Matt inside. “This place is amazing.”

It’s a bright, modern jewel box of a house, with five bedrooms, six bathrooms, an open kitchen-living room with a fireplace at one end, and glass curtain walls looking out over a broad back deck and the Long Island Sound. Most importantly, Foggy discovers, it has a well-stocked bar.

“Hair of the dog?” he asks, hefting a bottle of vodka.

“God, I could kiss you for that,” Matt says, and Foggy’s heart briefly stops. 

But he pulls himself together enough to park Matt on one of the barstools at the kitchen island and get to work making bloody bulls. The beef bouillon, he claims, is the key to restoring the bodily humors—and besides, as the son of a butcher, he’s required by law to celebrate meat in all its many forms and applications wherever possible.

“When we’re partners,” he says as he works, “this is how we’re gonna live.”

“Partners?” Matt asks.

“At Landman and Zack! We’re gonna get rich together, Matty. Just you see.”

“What would I ever do with a house this big?”

“Um, fill it with a wife and children and nice furniture?” Foggy asks almost hopefully. _Please just break my heart and get it over with while I’m already down, okay?_

But Matt just gives a tired laugh and rests his head on crossed arms on the countertop. “You gonna have that drink ready soon, or what?”

“Almost,” Foggy says. He hums as he threads a mix of pickles and olives on a long wooden skewer, capped off by a slice of lime. He rests the pickle kabob atop the drink and pushing it across the counter toward Matt. He bumps the glass against Matt’s fingers so he knows where it is, and Matt sits up in response to the contact. “There’s a garnish on top,” he says. “Drink up.”

Matt cautiously picks off the pickle-laden toothpick and holds out the glass. “Cheers,” he says.

“Slainte,” Foggy says, clinking his glass against Matt’s. “L’chaim. Salud. Et cetera.”

“I need all the help I can get,” Matt says miserably, and drinks.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After six and a half years together—four in a dorm room, two and a half in a two-bedroom apartment so small they keep their clothes in a shared chest of drawers that holds the TV off the ground in the living room—it’s hard to imagine that there’s anything they don’t know about each other yet. That secrets like Foggy’s could still be possible anymore. That feelings like Foggy’s could be possible to hide.

Modestly revived by the drinks and the better part of a bag of Cheetos, Matt decides what they really need is some fresh air. Then he sucks the last of the Cheeto dust from his thumb and Foggy nearly faints at the sight.

 _Get your shit together, Nelson._ “It’s like 34 degrees outside,” Foggy says.

“It’s bracing,” Matt argues, hopping up. “Besides, I’ve never been to the beach before.”

“Wait, really? Not even Coney Island?”

“I’ve never set foot across the East River.”

“How did I not know this about you? You’re telling me that not once in your 25 years have you set foot on any other piece of planet Earth besides the island of Manhattan?”

“Why not? There’s always something to do there.” Matt shrugs and grins. “Okay, I walked across the Brooklyn Bridge once on a date. But then we turned around before we got to the end and walked back.”

“Elektra?” he asks with surprise. God, he’d hated her. He’d tried not to—at 24, Matt had dated here and there but never had a real girlfriend before, and Foggy had wanted to be supportive and excited for his friend. But there was something about that woman that set off every alarm bell Foggy had. She was reckless and a little mean, with a rich girl’s impatience with things as dull as school and career plans and a snob’s indifference to Matt’s friends. He had adored her and she’d adored being adored. It had barely lasted a month and a half, but it had taken the better part of the semester for Matt to fully recover.

And yet now, a year later, Matt just laughs and shakes his head at the memory of her. “Ha! Can you imagine?” he asks, bouncing on the balls of his feet like a little boy and holding out his hand. “Come on, please?”

Like he can say no to that face.

A freezing wind steals their breath as they step outside, and they both gasp despite their heavy coats. He can feel Matt shivering through his grip on Foggy’s arm. At least the cold has solved one burgeoning problem for Foggy—his balls feel like they’ve retreated all the way up against his lungs. But that’s small consolation.

“I hate you,” Foggy mutters, but Matt just laughs and breathes it in.

“Is this what they mean by salt air?” he asks.

“I guess, yeah,” Foggy says. “And fish and seaweed and boat gasoline, and whatever else is out there.”

“There are boats are out there?”

“No, not right now,” Foggy says. “The water’s really choppy. I don’t think anyone would want to be out there.”

“It sounds loud,” Matt says, pushing Foggy forward by the arm. “Come on, let’s get closer.”

For all that he hates the cold, Foggy would have walked outside naked in a blizzard to see the smile that breaks across Matt’s face when his boots contact the sand for the first time. He lets go of Foggy’s arm, takes off his gloves, and kneels down to scoop up a freezing handful of it. He rubs his thumb in it, pours it from hand to hand to test its weight, even holds the pile to his nose to smell it before spreading his fingers and letting it drain away on the wind.

“How far away is the water?” he asks.

“About twenty yards?” Foggy guesses. “It’s low tide. There’s about five or six more yards of the loose sand here, and then it gets smooth.”

“Is there anything else out here? Like, beach chairs, umbrellas, that sort of thing?”

“No, people bring that stuff in for winter,” Foggy says. “Why?”

Matt doesn’t answer, just lets go of Foggy’s arm and begins to walk away. He moves cautiously at first, slow steps and outstretched arms, but once he reaches the firmer, tide-packed expanse of damp, icy beach, he begins to pick up speed. Once he reaches a comfortable pace, he shoves his hands into his pockets and heads east, into the wind.

It’s weird to see him move so freely, Foggy thinks—to see him just stroll down the beach like anyone else, with no concern about what may be in front of him. Matt gets around pretty easily in their apartment for the most part, but never like this.

Foggy jogs to catch up and then wordlessly falls in step alongside him. He doesn’t offer his arm and Matt doesn’t ask; as far as Foggy’s concerned, his only role is to warn Matt if he’s about to drift into the water. Even then he doesn’t speak, just gently tugs on Matt’s sleeve to course-correct and keeps walking.

After a while, though, Matt stops. He turns toward the sound, head tilted slightly, to listen to the boom of the wind-roughened waves, the bells on the buoys, the crack of the wind socks atop the lifeguard stations, and the cry of the few hardy gulls trying to eke out a few extra calories on a cold day with not much competition.

“I like it here,” Matt says eventually. “It feels—wild.”

Foggy tries to read the look on his face, but mostly he just looks cold. Happy, but cold. “You’ll have to come back in the summer, so you can go swimming.”

That apparently gives Matt a terrible idea, because he begins to walk forward toward the water. It’ll be freezing, Foggy knows, but he also knows Matt’s not stupid. He wants to feel the ocean—okay, the Long Island Sound, but it’s still salt—and Foggy’s not going to stop him.

Matt walks until he feels the water rush up against the fleece-lined snow boots Foggy’s mom got him for Christmas two years ago. He smiles a little as the retreating wave sucks the sand out from beneath him and bends down to allow his fingers to meet the next one.

It’s a bigger one, flowing over the tops of Matt’s feet, covering his entire hand and soaking the bottom quarter of his coat sleeve to boot. He yelps and jumps back, laughing and shaking the freezing cold water off his hand before blowing on it and rubbing it fiercely with his other hand to warm it back up.

“Jesus, that’ll wake you up,” he says gleefully, stuffing his hand back into his pocket. Not for the first time, Foggy wonders what kind of screwed-up optimism allows Matt to find pleasure even in pain. (Perhaps especially in pain—he is Catholic, after all.)

Not for the first time, Foggy wonders if that capacity extends to other areas of Matt’s life, too.

* * *

 

Much later, after the hottest showers of their lives, they’re lying on the large soft sectional sofa with the gas fire cranked up high and a half-eaten pizza on the coffee table. Foggy’s put on a movie, but they’re only half-paying attention to it; mostly they’re just dozing and chatting, rehashing the semester and commiserating about how far behind they already are on their capstone projects.

After six and a half years together—four in a dorm room, two and a half in a two-bedroom apartment so small they keep their clothes in a shared chest of drawers that holds the TV off the ground in the living room—it’s hard to imagine that there’s anything they don’t know about each other yet. That secrets like Foggy’s could still be possible anymore. That feelings like Foggy’s could be possible to hide.

He’s so close to spilling everything that he bites down hard on his knuckle, until the pain overtakes the need. He’s hungover and exhausted and emotional and _this is not the time to tell him_. He knows this. Having a crush on your roommate is weird and predatory and creepy and the last thing he wants to do is ambush Matt with this news in a place he can’t easily leave—or, for that matter, when the only place Matt has to retreat to is the apartment they share. Maybe in May, after they graduate, after their lease is up and they get their own places. Maybe then he can tell him.

Maybe.

Eventually Matt’s eyes flutter closed and stay that way, and Foggy lets his sentence trail out into silence. Matt snores a little when he sleeps on his back—softly, just enough to let you know he’s still breathing—and Foggy realizes how much he’s missed it over the three years they’ve had separate bedrooms. It’s only half past four, but the sun is already almost down, and the dark has tucked in close and dense around them, holding them silent and secret and safe.

And suddenly, Foggy can’t wait another minute.

“Matt,” he says softly, half-hoping he doesn’t wake, doesn’t hear. “Matt, I think I’m gay.”

The snoring stops, but Matt doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t move at all. “Yeah, buddy, I know,” he finally says.

“How?”

Matt rubs his face and sits up. “I dunno. I just always have, I guess.” He pulls a leg up under him and turns to face Foggy. “I guess Marci knows?”

 _I called her by your name during sex, so yeah, Matt, I’m pretty sure she knows._ A sob catches him out of nowhere and he manages to swallow it back, but not before the tears start and his nose begins to run. There’s so much more he wants to say, but he can’t. He sniffles a little and tries to cover it with a cough, but not well enough.

Matt’s head tilts ever so slightly at the sound. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know. I think so,” Foggy says. He laughs a little through his tears and Matt smiles a little in return, and now Foggy knows it’s the truth, that yes, everything’s okay. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m crying. I didn’t want to make a big thing about it.”

“Come here so I can hug you, you idiot,” Matt says, holding an arm wide, and Foggy’s so shocked by the offer that he obeys without question. “I’m proud of you, buddy,” Matt says, squeezing him tight. “That took guts. Good for you.”

Foggy rocks back on the sofa to keep himself from breaking down and kissing Matt right there and then. “It’s not going to be weird, with us living together?”

Matt gives an exasperated sigh. “You’re kidding, right?”

Foggy laughs. “Okay then.”

“Okay then,” Matt says cheerfully, standing up and clapping his hands “You sound like a man who needs a drink.”

Foggy laughs and nods. “I nodded, by the way,” and flushes red when Matt smiles. “You know where you’re going?”

“I’m like a bloodhound. I always know where the whiskey is,” Matt says, feeling his way across the room toward the kitchen counter, where a half-empty bottle of Jameson’s is standing.

He returns with the bottle and a pair of glasses, setting both on the coffee table. Matt pours them both a double and passes one to Foggy. “Cheers,” he says, holding his glass out toward Foggy. “To new beginnings. And really good sex.”

Foggy flushes and laughs and clinks Matt’s glass. “I’ll drink to that,” he says.

Matt opens his mouth and for a split second, Foggy thinks he’s going to say something else. But he doesn’t. He just tips back his glass and drinks.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gradually, millimeter by millimeter, their muscles begin to unhitch themselves from the relentless strain of the past two and a half years of law school. Neither one of them can remember the last time they allowed themselves to have this much free time.

When he wakes up the next morning, Matt’s already up and making breakfast, air-drumming to the Foo Fighters with a spatula as he scrambles a pan full of eggs and bacon. Foggy can’t help but laugh.

“Feeling better this morning?” Matt asks.

“Yeah,” Foggy says. “How long have you been up?”

“Hours,” Matt says. “Why did you let me fall asleep at eight o’clock last night?”

“What am I, your keeper?”

“Only when I make bad decisions,” Matt deadpans, taking a sip of coffee. He waves the spatula in the general direction of the coffee maker. “Full pot.”

“God, when did you get so domesticated?” Foggy asks. Though really, he knows why he’s doing this, knows this has everything to do with last night, that it’s Matt’s sideways way of offering Foggy a little TLC without embarrassing him.

“Hey, I can cook,” Matt says, taking mock offense. He pokes at the eggs with his spatula, declares them done, and takes the pan off the heat. “I can cook this, anyway,” he amends, dumping the food onto two plates, letting the bacon grease drizzle deliciously over the eggs.

“Why don’t you ever make this at home?” Foggy says, taking their plates to the kitchen bar. “I could happily wake up to this for the rest of my life.”

“Because our lives wouldn’t be very long if we did,” Matt said. “But we’re on vacation, so.”

For a moment Foggy freezes over, because they’re bickering like an old married couple, and before he can stop it the observation turns into a wish and he reminds himself _six months_ , and that’s enough for now, and he’s fine again. He’s in the homestretch, really. _Don’t fuck it up now, Nelson_.

“Oh, I got you something,” Matt adds as he sits next to Foggy. “Check your email.”

Foggy opens the app on his phone, and there, right at the top of his inbox is a message from a dating website called M4M with the subject line: _Please confirm your email address change_.

“Matt.”

“Your profile’s not public yet,” Matt says. “It’s not like I have any photos of you anyway. I just thought it might be a good place to start, you know? I won’t be offended if you delete it, though.”

But he can’t resist the chance to see how Matt sees him, so he confirms the change and clicks through to the account.

Matt’s picture of Foggy is surprisingly accurate—after six years of living together, Matt knows that his hair is blond and his eyes are green, and his height’s only off by an inch (Matt overestimated and Foggy doesn’t correct it). Matt bombed his weight though, underestimating by more than 25 pounds, but Foggy doesn’t correct that, either.

“Thanks for the ego boost, buddy,” Foggy says. “Nice to know there’s at least one corner of the world where I’m not obese.”

“You’re not obese, you’re—snuggly,” Matt says.

“How would you even know?”

“Your arm is soft,” Matt says. “And you’re, um, a demonstrative drunk.”

“Nelsons do like the hugs.”

“Ergo,” Matt says, grinning. “Now keep going. I want to know how wrong I was about the rest.”

Not very, as it turned out.

_About Me: Hell’s Kitchen born and raised, 3L at Columbia Law, extremely lapsed Catholic, extrovert, news junkie, food truck connoisseur, can argue the pants off a statue._

_Likes: Horror movies, dogs, comic books, pineapple on pizza, soft sweaters, Stephen King novels, dive bars, fun socks, dim sum, the Rangers, weird Olympic sports, stand-up comedy._

_Dislikes: Fruity drinks, hiking/camping, cilantro, pseudoscience, birds, fiscal conservatism, gym bros, smoking, experimental theater, condescension, country music._

“I’m never going to live down the bird thing, am I,” Foggy sighs.

“You screamed like a little girl.”

“Yeah, well, you would too if one flew into _your_ face.”

“Keep going. We still need to fill in the section about who you’re looking for,” Matt prompts.

Foggy scrolls down and winces. _You,_ he thinks. _Why don’t I just describe you?_ “I dunno, buddy,” he says. “This is still all pretty new.”

“Just start with the obvious stuff, then,” Matt says.

He stares at the blank white box he’s supposed to fill with adjectives, and sighs. _What the hell._ “Intelligent,” he says finally. “Down to earth. Good sense of humor. Curious. Cares about the state of the world. Reads a lot. Confident but not vain. Ambitious but not an asshole about it. Knows there’s more to life than the rat race. Kind. Interested in others. Likes to try new things. Says thank you. Overtips at restaurants.”

He can’t help but sneak glances at Matt as he types, flushing when the side of Matt’s mouth quirks up at the last item. Foggy’s never seen him leave less than 20 percent on the table.

“Sounds like my kind of guy,” Matt comments, sipping his coffee.

Foggy tries not to let himself wonder which part of the profile Matt’s referring to, quickly adds a few not-terrible pictures of himself, whispers “bombs away” and presses Post.

“Are you live?” Matt asks.

“I am live,” Foggy says. His nerves are sizzling with unfocused anxiety, but he can’t help smiling all the same. It’s about fucking time. “Thanks for the push, buddy.”

“Maverick and Goose, right?” Matt says, elbowing Foggy before scooping up another forkful of eggs.

“Right,” Foggy says.

* * *

 

For all the luxury they’re surrounded with, there isn’t actually that much to do this time of year, and that’s just fine by them. They read, they nap while movies and football games and hockey games cycle across the TV, Foggy plays endless hours of Skyrim while Matt makes fun of the dialogue, they eat and drink whatever they want and whenever they want, they crash early and sleep late.

After a brief giddy burst of curiosity, Foggy shuts off his notifications and logs out of M4M—he’s gotten a few responses already but the truth is, he can’t summon much interest in anyone else with Matt in such tight orbit this week. Maybe when he gets back, when classes start and they go days without seeing each other for more than an hour, maybe then he’ll be able to think about someone else. But not now.

Gradually, millimeter by millimeter, their muscles begin to unhitch themselves from the relentless strain of the past two and a half years of law school. Neither one of them can remember the last time they allowed themselves to have this much free time.

It snows sometime overnight that first night, and the next, and the next. Just a dusting, but enough for Foggy to notice in the mornings from the footprints and nothing else that Matt’s been going out to the beach alone at night without his cane. He doesn’t even bother to ask him about it—Matt Murdock wrote the book on keeping his own counsel—just adds it to the ever-growing list of questions he has about his best friend’s life.

They’d lived together for nearly a year before Foggy managed to piece together the outlines of Matt’s childhood, the absent mom and the murdered dad, the accident that blinded him and the years in the children’s home, and even that remains little more than a rough sketch. What he does know for sure is that Matt is brilliant and determined to make a good life for himself now that he’s finally in control of it, so much so that even now Foggy needs to remind him to rest, recharge, have a little fun every once in a while.

So as hard as it is to have Matt so close while he’s dealing with such an exceptionally acute case of Inconvenient Feelings, it’s worth the pain a dozen times over to see Matt as relaxed and happy as he is right now—and even, dare he say it, quick to smile. And, Foggy can’t help but notice, he hasn’t worn his glasses once since they got here.

They’re only a few days into their unplanned vacation together, and no matter whether he ever gins up the courage to confess to Matt his feelings, no matter whether Matt reciprocates them if he does, Foggy already knows he’s going to cherish this week for the rest of his life.

* * *

Late on the third night, they’ve run out of DVDs and have resorted to the classic movie channel on cable. Matt prefers old movies anyway, because there’s a lot of dialogue and not a lot of action to keep up with. They’re completely engrossed in _The African Queen_ when Matt pulls up a knee and turns toward Foggy on the sofa.

“We need to talk,” Matt says, resting his arm along the back cushions. Foggy tries his best not to notice that Matt’s hand is less than two inches from his shoulder, that all he’d need to do to touch him is flex his fingers. Foggy takes a sip of whiskey to cover the shallowing of his breath, hoping the burn will force him to release the muscles of his belly enough for him to properly fill his lungs again. But all it does is tickle and tighten them further, and he coughs.

“What about?” he manages.

“I’ve been thinking about what you told me the first night we got here,” Matt says, flexing his hand, and oh my God, his fingertips are resting on his shoulder. Foggy looks at them, then back at Matt.

“Matt—”

“Is this okay?” Matt asks. His fingertips follow Foggy’s shoulder and neck and when they reach Foggy’s cheek, he nods against Matt’s hand. Matt leans forward to kiss him.

All the blood in Foggy’s body rushes to his head and he presses into Matt’s kiss hard, tasting the whiskey on his lips and tongue and teeth and feeling the rough stubble of their unshaved chins rasp against each other.

Eventually Foggy can’t take it anymore, he grabs Matt’s hand and disengages from the kiss to catch his breath, pressing his forehead to Matt’s while he does.

“How—did you know?” Foggy asks.

“I didn’t, exactly,” Matt admits shyly. His hair’s mussed and he’s blushing and he’s got the sweetest half-smile on his face that Foggy’s ever seen. “But you held your breath when I put my hand there, and I thought, maybe, well--”

“And?”

“It was nice.”

“Yeah,” Foggy says. He turns his head a little and nips Matt’s lower lip, and Matt smiles and kisses him back. He lets his hand drift down—

“You sleeping, Fog?” Matt asks, batting him lightly with a throw pillow. “Hey. Wake up.”

Foggy coughs and sits up. Hepburn and Tracy are long gone, replaced by Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthau in drag.

“What?” Foggy manages to say, confused.

“You were talking in your sleep again.”

“I was?” Foggy asks hoarsely, and he’s almost crying with disappointment as fear pours over him like icewater. “Did I say—anything interesting?”

“Just nonsense,” Matt laughs. “Go to bed already, dude.”

“Yeah,” Foggy says, standing gingerly because he’s hard as a rock right now and has never, ever been gladder that Matt can’t see the state he’s in. “Good idea.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I just don't want to lose you, buddy."

The next morning is much better. After limping back to his room, Foggy had jerked off in the shower and let himself cry a little before crawling into bed and eventually falling into an exhausted, and blessedly dreamless, sleep.

And now? Now he’s mostly fine. A little wary, a little fragile, a little bit at risk of crying at the drop of a hat still—but fine. He’s fine.

It’s not until he stumbles into the main room that he realizes a storm has rolled in overnight. It’s not quite a blizzard yet, but the snow is pouring down thickly, obscuring the sound and blanketing the house in eerie silence. 

Matt’s not up yet, so he makes coffee and starts some toast, and turns on the weather channel to see how bad things are going to get.

Spoiler alert: It’s gonna be bad.

He realizes his phone is dead and plugs it in to charge, and only then do the texts from his mother start pouring in, begging him to make sure he’s got enough food and firewood and candles, and advising him to fill the bathtubs with water just in case the pipes burst.

 _We’ll be fine, Ma_ , he texts petulantly, before following her instructions to the letter.

Once all the tubs have been filled, he knocks softly on Matt’s door to get him up. He doesn’t answer, so Foggy opens the door.

Matt’s not in bed.  Nor is he in the attached bathroom.

Alarmed, Foggy hustles back out to the main room, hoping against hope that he and Matt somehow just managed to miss each other in the hallway. Hoping against hope that Matt wasn’t wandering around outside when the storm rolled in.

He’s not in main room. He’s not in any of the bedrooms.

His coat and boots are gone.

His cane is still leaning against the coat tree in the front hall.

_Fuck._

Foggy bundles up faster than he thought possible and barrels out into the storm. Any footprints Matt may have left are long gone, but with the houses behind them and the sound in front of them, the only choices he has are left and right, and at the moment, neither looks promising.

He decides to turn right, into the wind, while his legs are fresh. The wind is breath-stealing and bitter, the visibility terrible and the wind deafening, and between the drifting snow and the sand he’s barely making any progress at all. His city coat can’t keep up with the cold and his pajama pants are quickly soaked to the thighs, but as miserable as he is, it can’t be worse than what Matt’s going through.

“Matt!” he calls uselessly into the wind. “Matt! Where are you?”

He walks and walks and walks, forcing himself to keep his head up, his eyes open so he can catch a glimpse of Matt. But there’s nothing but swirling snow and a vague haze of homes to his right and the vast nothing of the sound to his left, and Foggy knows—he _knows_ —that Matt could be twenty feet away and he’d never realize.

“Matt! Matty! Are you out here?”

But what else can he do? Matt would be frozen by the time police arrived; Foggy’s chief hope now is that he’s managed to find his way to a house along the way, that he’s managed to take shelter somewhere.

Still, he pushes forward. His legs are growing numb and slow, and he falls twice. He finally reaches the first lifeguard station and leans heavily against one of its stilts to catch his breath. He’s barely gone a quarter of a mile, and he knows he cannot risk going further. Not against this wind, anyway.

He chokes back a sob and turns back toward the house. At least with the wind at his back, it’s easier, though gusts threaten to knock him down and the tide is inconveniently moving in, driving him up into the soft, loose sand that’s harder to walk in.

After what feels like hours, Candace’s house finally comes into view. He’s very nearly upon it—he can’t see more than a few feet ahead now—and he pauses to consider whether he should press westward immediately or check inside to see if Matt’s somehow made it home in the interim first.

He’s still deciding when he catches a glimpse of a shadow ahead. Without thinking, Foggy runs toward it—though at this point running is little more than ineffective floundering.

The shadow resolves into the shape of a man, and eventually, when they’re less than five feet apart, into Matt. Redfaced, snow-encrusted, and grinning like the goddamn idiot that he is.

Foggy flings himself at Matt with an inchoate cry of relief mixed with rage, throwing his arms around him and pulling him toward the house.

Once Foggy finally hustles him inside, he slams the door and rounds immediately on Matt.

“What the fuck were you thinking?”

“It wasn’t s-snowing when I l-left,” Matt protests, gingerly peeling his coat and scarf off and dropping them on the floor when he realizes he’s too numb and clumsy with cold to find the hooks. His teeth are chattering audibly but he’s still got that shit-eating grin on his face. “Th-that was amazing!”

“My question still applies!” Foggy shouts, throwing his hat at Matt’s face. “You went out without your cane! How did you plan to find your way home?”

Matt wipes the snow from his face and picks up his damp winter gear with infuriating calm. “I c-counted my steps, Fog,” he says rationally, despite the fact that he’s shivering so hard Foggy can see him shake. “Th-that’s what I always d-do.”

“Why are you going out without your cane?” Foggy repeats uselessly.

“Because th-there’s nothing in m-my w-way out th-there,” Matt pouts. “It’s s-safe.”

“This—” Foggy uselessly points at the storm outside “—is not safe, Matt. This is the absolute definition of not safe, you moron!”

“Jesus Ch-Christ, Fog,” Matt says, and now he’s shivering so hard it’s garbling his words. “I d-didn’t mean f-for th-this to h-happen. But I’m f-fine, s-s-see?”

“Do you even hear yourself?” Foggy roars, and grabs his arm. “You need to warm up.”

Foggy frog-marches Matt into his bathroom and turns on the shower, dialing up the heat as far as he thinks is safe. “Get in. I’ll make more coffee.”

Twenty minutes later, Matt emerges from his room, damp and heat-flushed in sweatpants and hoodie.

“Coffee,” Foggy says shortly, pressing a mug into Matt’s hand. He doesn’t offer to guide Matt to the kitchen bar. If he wants to wander around the beach in a snowstorm without his cane he can find a chair his own damn self.

“I’m sorry, Fog,” Matt says, closing both his hands around the mug and taking a long drink from it. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“What scares me is that you _weren’t_ scared, Matt,” Foggy says. “You really could have gotten into trouble out there. Hell, _I_ could have gotten into trouble out there. This kind of weather’s dangerous.” 

“I know,” Matt says, stretching out his hand to locate the kitchen counter before easing himself onto the barstool next to Foggy. “It was a dumb thing to do. I’m sorry. I just wanted the rush of going out there on my own and I didn’t stop to think about the consequences. Thank you for saving my stupid ass out there.”

“Matt,” Foggy sighs. “You have to take care of yourself. You can’t just _do_ stuff like this.”

“Don’t you ever tell me what I can’t do,” Matt says coolly.

“I’m not—” Foggy shakes his head. “I learned a long time ago never to underestimate you, Matt. I just worry about you sometimes, you know?”

“Well, don’t.”

“You know you don’t get to choose that, right?”

Matt doesn’t answer, just sips his coffee with his uncanny middle-distance stare boring a hole into the kitchen backsplash a dozen feet away. Outside, the storm picks up force, snow pours in windy sheets, punctuated by occasional icy clumps of it spattering against the window, and all Foggy can think of is what might have happened if he hadn’t discovered Matt missing when he did, if he hadn’t found him when he did.

And for the third time in as many days, Foggy begins to cry.

“Foggy,” Matt says softly. He abandons the mug and reaches toward him, catching him on the sleeve. He closes his fingers around Foggy’s arm and squeezes gently. “I’m sorry. That was a careless, shitty thing for me to do.”

Matt’s touch is unbearable but Foggy doesn’t want him to let go, so he reaches up and covers Matt’s hand until he can finally get himself under control. Matt doesn’t recoil, doesn’t say anything, just sits there and lets him cry until Foggy finally lifts Matt’s hand away and walks over to the windows.

“I know you’re not used to feeling like you matter to people, Matt,” he finally manages to say to the storm. “But you do.”

“You trying to make me cry too or something?” Matt asks, clearing his throat.

Foggy turns around and Matt’s standing now, one hand tentatively on the back of the barstool, the other hand shoved into the pocket of his hoodie. Foggy notices he’s curling and uncurling his toes anxiously inside his socks and he knows Matt well enough to know that means he’s itching to move, but doesn’t know which direction to go.

Without thinking, Foggy crosses back to the kitchen and hugs him hard, and after a moment’s surprise, Matt squeezes him back.

“I just don’t want to lose you, buddy,” Foggy says.

“You won’t,” Matt says, but he doesn’t let go. Instead, he buries his face further into the curve of Foggy’s neck, and Foggy’s 97% sure that Matt’s mouth is pressed against his skin. Not kissing, just touching, and then Matt’s breath skims across the nape of Foggy’s neck and he goes rigid in more ways than one.

“Oh God,” Foggy says, jerking back to put some daylight between them, though Matt doesn’t let go and he can’t get far. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Fog.” Matt smiles and Foggy realizes how close he still is, that he’s still not letting Foggy go, and that he’s maybe even a little bit flushed?

“It is?”

“I have to tell you something,” Matt says softly, tilting his head down a little the way he does when he sounds out a new room, his hands still firmly gripping Foggy’s shoulders. “My date on the Brooklyn Bridge was with Diego Avila from Torts. This past June.”

“Wait, what?”

“You were so jealous of Elektra that I didn’t want to tell you until I was sure it was going to last.”

“You’ve been dating a _man_ for six months?” The room seems to be setting sail beneath him, and Foggy grips Matt’s arms hard for balance. Elektra had barely lasted six weeks. Six very long, very unsecret, very uncomfortably heterosexual weeks.

“No. I broke up with him in September,” Matt says, and his fingers fiddle nervously with a curling strand from Foggy’s ponytail.

A billion questions are pouring over Foggy faster than he can hope to articulate them: _Have you always been into men? Are you bi? Gay? Why didn’t you say anything the other night? When did you know? Why didn’t I know? Why are we still holding onto each other?_

But the only one he can manage is the least important of them all: “What happened?”

“I realized there was someone else I wanted more.” Then Matt’s eyes lift involuntarily toward the ceiling in search of something overhead and it gives him an even more pensive look, and Foggy holds his breath so tightly he’s afraid he might make himself pass out. “But he was in a relationship at the time.”

“Get to the point, Matthew,” Foggy says hoarsely, digging his fingers hard into the folds of Matt’s sweatshirt, because whatever is happening right now is intolerable.

Matt gives a nervous little laugh and Foggy’s so anxious he nearly begins to cry again. “What I mean to say is: You don’t live with someone for six years unless you work well together, and I really don’t want to mess up what we have,” Matt says slowly, and Foggy feels all the air drain out of the room. Then there’s a flicker at the corners of Matt’s mouth, so faint Foggy’s not even sure it’s real. “So I need you to tell me how much it would mess things up if I said I wanted to find out if we could have something more.”

Foggy laughs and presses his forehead to Matt’s. “That’s something I’ve wanted for a very long time,” he says.

Matt raises his hand to Foggy’s face, locating his chin and mouth with the lightest of touches before ducking in to kiss him. “Yeah, buddy,” he says, his mouth still touching Foggy’s. “I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> Happy holidays, StripedScribe! I hope you enjoyed our boys fumbling their way toward love, and that you have a wonderful holiday season, whatever and however you celebrate! xo


End file.
